


The Falmer Dragonborn

by 100dabbo



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Aldmeri Dominion, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Brother-Sister Relationships, Canon-Typical Violence, Developing Friendships, Eventual Relationships, Fugitives, Multi, Skyrim Civil War, Slow Burn, Stormcloaks
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-24
Updated: 2020-02-15
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:21:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22394707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/100dabbo/pseuds/100dabbo
Summary: The Dragonborn watches as her husband, the self-proclaimed 'High King of Skyrim', Ulfric Stormcloak, is rolled through the gates of Helgen to his death. Her only problem is that she can't be the one to put him to his end. That, and her brother is in the line for the chopping block too.orThe Dragonborn isn't a prisoner and she ends up buddying up with the diverse cast of rag-tag captives of the Imperial army, seeking to defeat the StormcloaksandAlduin though the power of ~friendship~
Relationships: Female Dovahkiin | Dragonborn & Original Male Character(s), Female Dovahkiin | Dragonborn & Ulfric Stormcloak, Original Female Characters & Original Female Characters
Kudos: 4





	1. The Death and Decay

The seventeenth of Last Seed; late summer; the horizon of death and decay. Though in Skyrim, even as the summer sun bleeds rays through the thick, massy clouds, the air never seems to escape that biting chill of wind and gale, especially in those northern holds. But here, in the north eastern region of Falkreath, the dragonborn sits upon her horse, wrapped in the immaculate furs and pelts of those white sabre cats one might find prowling the tundra. Her skin is white, and her lips are red, eyes of the most brilliant blue that match the Stormcloak cuirasses on the backs of those prisoners rolling though Helgen. Six to each wagon, those conceited Nords sit with their wrists in tight cloth binds, ready for the headsman. 

Her horse stamps and shakes its lustrous mane, its short black fur glittering in the sun from its movements of unease, shaking the reigns in the dragonborn’s grip. All she can do is watch them go past, kept beside the Aldmeri Dominion and their soldiers. She is in their palm now, passed from person to person like the commodity she is, and she can’t help but feel the pang of anxiety in her heart; they think she’s one of them, a High Elf, and when they discover she isn’t, she will be finished. 

The man they call her husband, the ‘High King of Skyrim’, sit in binds too, silenced by that cloth gag between his teeth, taut behind his head with a knot of deliberate tightness. He is seated in the last carriage in the trail, separated from the rest of the detainees except the petty criminals, not given the dignity to spend his last moments amongst his comrades. As he is driven past, his gaze never leaves hers, a stare of anger and fury in those cold, unblinking, Nordic eyes. His black pelts still slope over his shoulders and she can’t help but snarl; Ulfric Stormcloak’s neck will finally meet the edge of a blade and she isn’t the one to give it to him. 

Hinges squeak and bolts lock as the gate is shut behind the last wagon, the wood groaning and scraping against stone as it is pushed to. The Altmer company promptly follows behind, and therefore so does she, the horses’ hooves and the carriages’ wheels the only sounds to echo against the tall imperial towers in the town centre. The indistinct murmuring of Helgen’s people then follow their arrival. The rebellion is to be extinguished right before their eyes and they are the first to know of it, all coming out of their quaint little cottages to watch on. A mother, father and their boy outside their house; a Dunmer on the steps of the inn; the elders beside the watchtower with the sentries. She snarls at them too.

But then, her resenting rictus drops, seeing the first few soldiers drop down from their wagon and form a line for the chopping block. Her brother - her twin - the helpless halfwit boy steps down and joins the Nords, eyes flicking between those deadpan Imperials and the audience surrounding them. For a split second, those frantic eyes meet with the dragonborn. Both stifle a gasp, biting their lips and looking away before their pitiful tears have the chance to well.

A Redguard soldier, donned in the studded armour of the Imperials, grabs his arm in an iron grip and pushes him forth, the assertive gaze in her deep, sapphire eyes enough to urge him into the queue without another pause. She too looks to the dragonborn, then to the ebony stallion braying beneath her and returns it back to the captives. A stoic Bosmer and a smirking Khajiit drop from the last carriage, sluggishly followed by the infamous Stormcloak leader.

“ _He’d spit on me if he could._ ” The Redguard thinks, moving past her captain, the commanding superior preparing to dictate the names on her lengthy list of rebels. The dragonborn listens and waits with breath hitching in her throat. Each Nord obediently moves forward as their name is called, and another pulse of undeniable dread hits her heart as his name is called,

“Horatio Dengoth.” The captain says, and the Redguard looks him up and down in a single study with her eyes,

“You’re not with the Thalmor Embassy, are you, High Elf?” A wind catches his hair as he looks up, blowing those white strands behind him. He can’t say anything; his tongue is trapped between his teeth. The Redguard raises her eyebrows, a look of sympathy veiling her glacial visage, “We’ll make sure your remains are returned to the Summerset Isle…” He is shoved along with the rest of the sorry lot, the dark, cobalt blue of his cuirass defining him as one of them. The dragonborn refuses to look on, for her kind eyes do not deserve more trauma than she has already taken; the Altmer beside her offer her no empathy.

The Khajiit and the Bosmer stand just behind the rabble, offering one another a single, simple glance; comrades in crime, though not in battle like the rest of them. The feline thief met the archeress in the small Falkreath jail the night before, though neither thought their heads would be rolling on the cold ground the next morning. The Cat, still smirking, rubs the pads of her furry fingers together, the heat sparking within them the prerequisite of their escape plan. The Bosmer offers a subtle tug of her lips too before returning to her enduring expression. Their feet fidget in the ragged footwraps as they wait for the General to lower down from his horse.

Tullius’ legs swing off the saddle as he comes down, his long, red cloak trailing behind as he walks with a purposeful grandeur, taking his place in front of the Stormcloak prisoners to begin his speech. His eyes instantly lock with the dragonborn’s spiteful spouse,

“Ulfric Stormcloak…” He shakes his head, “Some here in Helgen call you a hero,” And he offers an amused glance to the audience, everyone replying with a bemused smile; all besides the Dunmer, watching with serious, severe eyes. His voice then shifts to a thunderous shout, “But a hero doesn’t use a power like The Voice to murder his king and usurp his throne!” Anger embodies each of his words. The horses bray wildly at the volume, huffing and panting. Tullius continues, rage still flowing through his speech, “You started this war; plunged Skyrim into chaos, and now the Empire is going to put you down and restore the peace!” The birds fly from their trees in a flurry, cawing and crying out, the people’s eyes following their synchronised pattern in the air; flying above to escape the violent horrors to be witnessed in just a few moments.

Then, echoing off the crags and mountains, rumbling through the woods and the clearings, resonating in the town and across the landscape, they hear the screeching roar of some beast. It reverberates around them all, and that undeniable noise is heard by everyone in Helgen.

“What was that?” The Khajiit hisses to her ally, beady eyes scanning the sky for the unattainable explanation. Everyone stands stock still in their place, all but the eager General, intent on putting the rebellion to rest and getting it over with.

“Carry on.” He commands the captain, stepping beside her as she reaches back for her list. She shouts out a Nord’s name and the man steps forward, courageous till the end, and he drops to his knees before the headsman.

The executioner raises his axe while the Nord mutters his last words, the shining, sleek steel glinting brightly in the blinding sunlight before gravity does its work, swinging the axe down in a single stroke to take away his head. Thick, scarlet blood spurts from the decapitated body, and the lifeless cadaver flops to the side, discarded into the pool of red. The Stormcloaks shout their pejoratives as they helplessly look on. The captain ignores and glances back to her list,

“Next, the High Elf!” She shouts, and the dragonborn stifles another cry. She hides her face into the soft furs, not letting herself watch his miserable demise.

When the roar sounds again, seemingly bellowing from the sky itself, she cranes her neck back up, as do the rest, all just as confused as the last.

“There it is again! Did you hear that?!” The Khajiit asks with a fierce whisper to the Bosmer, a look of bewilderment in both their faces.

“I said, next prisoner!” The captain reinforces, whipping a hand onto the hilt of her sword as they all wait for him to step forth. The dragonborn’s brother takes a tentative stride as though testing the waters, trying to control the shakes of his hands. He balls them into tight fists. Their eyes burn into the back of his head as he takes another, closer and closer to the crimson block and the executioner’s axe, closer and closer to his end, all the while his sister shuts herself off, surrounding herself in the safe luxury of her robes.

His lids close and his spirit fails, large, swelling tears beading in the corners of his eyes; falling down his cheeks at the same time his knees fall to the ground. His back is pushed down and his neck meets with the wood.

“ _Wet_ ,” He thinks in his last thoughts, “ _Wet and cold and_ …” He takes a sharp inhale and more tears tickle their way down. The metallic twang of blood is what he can smell. Blood from the previous prisoner that lost his head not thirty seconds ago. He looks up at the headmen, despair in his eyes as the axe is lifted. But then, that same noise fills the air, the monstrous, deafening, calling roar. He blinks through the tears blurring his vision, looking beyond the headsman, beyond the towers, beyond the mountains and up into the sky where the black winged dragon soars above them. The second to see are the sentries,

“Dragon!” They call out, raising their bows with keenly notched arrows to begin their fire. Stones tumble from the crenulations as it lands on the tower, each crumbled rock smashing to the rumbling ground into hundreds of pieces. It lets out its petrifying call once more as the people stare in disbelief, piercing the air with their screams and shouts, the sky turning into a swirling, mauve mass of clouds up above them. The second the headsman falls to the floor; everyone is set into action.

The horses kick and rear, shirking off their riders, tumbling them carelessly onto the floor, the dragonborn included. Her body falls, those cushioning furs saving her from injury, though her dark stallion abandons her, as do the Altmer as they draw out their shining elven swords from their hilts. 

“Guards! Get the townspeople to safety!” She hears the General command through her ringing ears, and then a hand is grasped tightly to her shoulder. It pulls her up and the faint chimes sound with the bright, casting glow of a healing spell. She opens those azure eyes to gaze into her saviour’s face. The Dunmer looks back at her, pure panic within in her frantic expression. Her vision goes black.

Then her twin, on the opposite side of the centre with no true allies in sight, makes a run for the other tower as the dragon fiercely beats its wings to regain its height above the town. He follows his comrades, those headstrong Nords following the Stormcloak leader. It seems everything is in slow motion; his breaths coming thick and heavy out of his throat, his eyes scanning the surroundings while people bleed all over the shaking ground, helplessly holding their deep, deep wounds; fresh and fatal. Then a bang, and a crash, and a crackle of fire as the dragon sends down its flames onto the buildings below.

“Jarl Ulfric!” A blond Nord shouts, rushing towards his leader with wide, unblinking eyes, “What is that thing? Could the legends be true?!”

“Legends don’t burn down villages…” He mutters to the man, hands tracing though his dirt-encrusted locks. He offers a glance with his blue eyes to the dragonborn's brother, naïve to their familial relation, “We need to move! Now!” 

The Nords direct him up the stone steps of the tower, tripping after each one as his feet fumble in those heavy, fur boots. He falls to his hands, the cold grey rock chilling his bony digits, and as he makes his attempt to regain his wobbly footing, the wall is broken though by the head of that gargantuan beast. It lets out its deathly shout, fire streaming from its gaping throat onto the polished stone which gleams in the bright orange light. He stares in its demoniac eyes, blazing with bale and woe; red, glittering rubies distinct against the deep, black vellum of its scaly skin. Explicatives don’t have time to flow from his mouth, and as soon as it flies away from the tower’s wall, the dragonborn’s brother makes an exit, jumping into the burning inn below. 

He plummets into the wooden attic, the stiff straw breaking the rapid descent. He stands up as well as he can, offering a glance to the sky above, now a hunkering swirl of those ferocious clouds, brooding over the land below and amalgamating with the fast-rising smoke.

The fire surrounds him, swallowing the timber of the inn with its amber tongues, engulfing it whole and charring it black. That smoke is thick and choking, a massy grey cloud seeping and creeping into his lungs with its curling, suffocating fingers, squeezing his windpipe and restricting his breath with its subtle and cunning drift. He looks back up and the Nord shouts from up above,

“Down there, my friend, there’s a way out!”

Without the time spare to thank the man, he drops to the floor and crawls to the gap in the wood, slipping through to the ground floor and makes his sly escape. He rushes with his comrades to the wide-open gate, that wide-winged, reptilian beast still exacting its deadly fire, the futile Imperial arrows bouncing off of its thick, glimmering scales. But, as the company run to their freedom, the he is jolted by the crowd and falls on his face, onto the cold, hard cobbles below, and right at the feet of the Imperial General.

The Khajiit doesn’t look back as she knocks the boy over, so intent on reaching her own freedom, and that of the Bosmer ally, that she presses on and follows the Stormcloaks towards the keep. More stone tumbles around them; the walls, the towers, the pillars, all hung with the black Imperial banners, fall in a crumbling mess. They run, their bare feet picking up as much speed as possible, racing in and around the blazing buildings until they reach the great wooden door of the keep. Though, with concern for her new companion, the Khajiit stops in front of her. They look one another in the eyes and simultaneously nod in affirmation.

The Cat’s fingers flame, and the cloth binds are burned to ashes before them. She moves her hands to the Wood Elf’s tight knots, untying them with those deft digits to restore the keen agility which they will no doubt need once the Imperials return their focus back to them; the fugitive prisoners still destined for the block. Though there is one Imperial, one soldier whose unfaltering focus refuses to be that of the beast in the clouds. 

“Stop right there, criminal scum!” The Redguard roars, steel sword pointing their way. They stop in their tracks and turn to her, fear in both of their glassy blue eyes. The Bosmer’s breath hitches, for she is useless without her bow, and she steps behind the towering Khajiit, the Cat turning her expression back to her confident, almost unsettling, smile. Both her hands raise beside her head, furry palms facing out, claws poised for attack. But instead of a swipe of those sharp barbs, one flickers with that orange flame and the other cracks with white hot sparks. The dragon lets out another one of its sonorous shouts, and in the Redguard’s bewilderment, the two slip away and into the stone keep. 

The Bosmer bolts the door and whips around to scan the room with those keen cobalt eyes; a bow is what she needs, and arrows, lots of arrows. Then, the Cat’s ears prick, and their pointed tips turn back towards the dingy corridor. 

“Tsss!” She hisses, snapping her fingers to gain her ally’s attention. She hears the footsteps of those Imperial steel boots echoing down the dark passage; small, quiet steps, unavoidably clinking and scraping on the hard stone with each footing they make. The ground beneath them quivers again, and the dragon’s roar is heard from the outside. They turn their heads to one another and their eyes deadlock, the Wood Elf hearing the quick approach too, and the Khajiit commands her for her own safety once more, “Get back, get back!”

The two silently stand themselves against the south facing wall, waiting for their adversaries to emerge. The chain rattles and the wooden gate draws itself up with a slow and gradual turn of the rusty cogs, squeaking and creaking with each laborious rotation. Two soldiers step out; one clad in the reflective steel of a legate, the other in the tough brown leather of an auxiliary. Neither say a word, though both unsheathe their weapons.

The rise of anticipation swells in the Khajiit’s heart whilst fear thuds dully within the Bosmer’s, and the Cat reignites that wicked flame in her palm, looking at her companion with cunning dancing in her eyes, and then shifts the glare to the unsuspecting soldiers in front.

And outside, the dragon lands itself back onto the tallest tower in Helgen’s centre, digging its deadly talons into the stone as though it were soft as soil. Its cry re-echoes against the steep crags, arrows pointlessly hitting its tough scales like blunt sticks, and it looks down with those evil eyes at the helpless prey below. It champs its ruthless jaw; sharp teeth clashing against sharp teeth before beating its wings in the thick, smoky air, its unattainable size beginning to hover above the town once more, and then it glides away, back through the mountains and above the landscape, directly passing over the road to Riverwood; that same road on which the Dunmer carries the rescued dragonborn, laying limply on the horse, still wrapped in the comforting warmth of her white pelts.


	2. The Fugitives

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The fugitives of Helgen go their separate ways, escaping the burning town, hoping to find safety.

Tullius and the Imperials watch as the beast disappears though the clouds. Above this burning town where casualties and cadavers lay burned to ashes across the centre and where buildings and houses have disintegrated to nothing but charred wood and dusty cinders, those soft clouds return themselves back to their soft, white purity, floating across the sky in a new, tranquil drift. In the stunned silence, clinging to the air with its infinite stillness, a sudden fall of timber drops from the eastern gate and hits the ground with a dull thud, those glowing embers and sparks flurrying into the air and dancing through the veiling wisps of smoke.

Not all Stormcloaks were lucky enough to make their quick getaway with the Windhelm Jarl and have been captured back the side of their enemies, their cloth binds rubbing their skin raw. Their sorry faces say it all; drab, disappointed and discouraged by their inability to escape with their beloved leader, and while it’s only five of the original thirty prisoners, it’s five more than zero that Tullius can bring back to Solitude. Five including Horatio, the quivering brother of the dragonborn. 

The Imperial soldiers surround him on all sides, evidently low on morale. He can see it in their eyes, the obvious cause being this flaming atrocity still surrounding them. Many of them drop their weapons, the steel clattering noisily to the ash coated stone, and they turn their heads to their General with despair in their glazed eyes. So, Tullius walks forward, his gait absent of the confident stride he once possessed, and he stops in front of his troupe, gravel crunching beneath his feet.

“Listen, soldiers, we still have captives here,” He then takes a pause and throws a glance at those rebels kneeling on the cold ground, “The first thing we need to do is secure them and secure them we will. Whiterun dungeons can keep them until a courier can be sent for carriages,” The soldiers nod, still bleary eyed, and pull up the five prisoners; four stoic Nords and the dragonborn’s jittering twin grasped harshly by the arm in an iron grip, held in front of their respective guards to march out of Helgen. But before they commence the move to Dragonsreach, Tullius speaks up again,

“Where’s Private Rhodopis?” He directs his question to his nearest auxiliary; a shaking and seemingly disconsolate man, his knuckles white as his fingernails dig into his palms. The Redguard of which the General speaks was the newest Private in his ranks and currently one of many missing soldiers under his command. The auxiliary quivers and looks to his superior, expressing in wavering words,

“She hasn’t- she hasn’t been seen since the attack, sir.”

“And the Legate?”

“She went into the keep, sir, with- with another soldier,” He pauses, clenching his jaw and letting out a whimper of discourage. A glare from the General makes him display blanched face and quivering lips; an afeard soldier is the last thing they all need. The imperious stare urges him on to continue, and with apparent tremble in his tone he finishes his report, “In pursuit of the Stormcloak rebels…”

The Khajiit lets the flames flow from her hands; a roaring, powerful blaze that ignites both the Legate and her soldier, and they fall to the ground in a struggling collapse, smothered entirely with the flickering flames; skin melting and bones burning, all their flesh dissolving in the hell-fire. Their armour can offer no help to protect either of them, those eager flames finding their passage through the gaps between each plate and blazing wherever it may.

The Bosmer watches on with real terror in her eyes, seeing their souls leaving their bodies as they become lifeless, charred corpses right before her. She isn’t a criminal, not really, and so to see the double homicide of these two gallant soldiers is frightening to her, even if they did want to see her head rolling. Their white bones are stark against the scorched skin, a haunting spectacle to witness. She stifles a wail and looks to her placid ally, the stench of their grilled cadavers burning in her nostrils.

“Take her armour,” The Khajiit advises phlegmatically, “I’ll have the leather. We’ll be able to sneak out.”

“You can’t be serious…” She shakes her head in disbelief, not only of the event she just witnessed, but of the unreasonably dull-witted suggestion, “Steel armour like that does not allow for agility, and you know it!”

Those sly eyes of the Cat whip round to the Bosmer as she shirks the leather off of the auxiliary. She says nothing and looks across the room to a dead Stormcloak. His cuirass looks nimble enough. 

“Ula, if you really care about it, how about you fish the clothes off of different dead man?” She nods to the rebel’s body with an uncaring smirk, “And if not, you can make do with some metal.” The Bosmer’s eye twitches and she clenches her fist. The cuirass it will be.

They are soon suited up, fitting their roles easily enough; playing as a lost Imperial Praefect escorting a captured rebel back to Solitude for her destined execution. Rather fitting it’s the swaggering Khajiit to act the Imperial role too, her confidence and prowess proving a suitable asset in their characters, should they need to convince a troupe on their way. Ula, however, merely sucks her teeth and concedes to it, following the Cat out of the centre room and down deeper into the keep, making their easy escape.

Horatio struggles in his binds as he walks behind the Imperial. The tight, itching cloth digs into those slender wrists of his, clutching them together with its stubborn grip. He has to get free; only Mara knows what they’ll do to him – and the others – once they finally reach Solitude. Imprisonment for sure, but after that? Exile from Skyrim? Excommunication from the Divines? Execution by the ruthless headman?

His eyes dart around his surroundings; the Imperial General and his keen soldiers won’t look away for a second, so even if those strong binds weren’t cuffing his hands together, there wouldn’t be a possibility for an escape.

But what Horatio lacks in probability of success, he can make up for in hope. While he was overcome with despair in those last moments before his _planned_ execution, there was a difference in the fact that none of the Imperials felt the same suffering he did. Now, however, these sorry looking soldiers with their eyes bloodshot from the smoke, walking past the ruins of this little town are just as vulnerable as he was not one hour ago. 

_“This,”_ He thinks, _“I can use to my advantage…”_

He sizes up the troupe; there’s about fifteen of them left, all still jarred from the trauma, their focus not as sharp as what it ought to be for Legion soldiers. Their quivers are empty and any arrows that are strewn on the grounds and either bent or burnt; absolutely useless. If he’s fast enough, he can make a run for it, just bolt through that wide gate and try to find wherever his sister was taken to, and if that fails, those Stormcloaks are always still an option for him…

He deliberates; how fast would one have to be to get through that gate and beyond without receiving a single hit from one of his enemies? Faster than an Imperial solder, of course, but if one where to throw something, or perhaps if any use magic, he could be taken down instantly. Still, he’s at the front of the line; closest to the gate than everyone else out of the five-man troupe of pathetic rebels. If anyone had a chance, it’d be him. 

He regards the forest beyond Helgen’s walls with its tall-tipped green firs. It wouldn’t be that long to run to Falkreath… would it? The sunlight beams its intense rays and pierces those fluffy clouds to shine it yellow glow on that green wood. No harsh wind licks their broad backs or rustle their branches anymore; there’s just a calm and soothing atmosphere, plain and peaceful - easy for him to escape into.

“Eyes forward!” His escort commands, his gruff voice filled with hatred and loathing.

 _“It’s understandable,”_ Horatio thinks as he marches on, closer and closer to the gate, _“If it weren’t for these Stormcloaks, we wouldn’t be here in the first place. He’d probably still have all of his shining comrades in their steel suits, their quivers plentiful with those handcrafted arrows and their bodies not so utterly charred black on the ground of the ruined town.”_

Still, he obeys the command, for soon he is to be free of their instruction; provided this escape into the woods proves successful. Once the company has passed the northern gate, his feet will carry him through the tundra, make fast flight into the forest due west, leg it to Falkreath and find that precious sister of his. Who knew where she was? Someone ought to, if not just Mara herself, then perhaps the Dominion… 

As soon as that dragon took off, they all fled, returning back to their Embassy on their swift horses, not a single word with the General about a future plan for the rebellion. If they had taken her with them, she’d be imprisoned no doubt, in that great stone house perched like a proud eagle on the Haafingar mountains, looking right down on Skyrim’s capital with its keen Aldmeri eyes.

He shudders at the thought, a tracing chill running down his spine as the evil notion embeds itself further into his mind. All the more motivation to free himself from these imperious captors. A look to the left and a look to the right; he surveys his surroundings once last time as they make their way through the gate and the lush forest come into view; its thin white veil of delicate snow coating the ground. While it would make him traceable for a while, it would eventually stop as he would run further and further out, seeking his sanctuary in the little town of Falkreath. 

A sharp, cold breath he draws into his nostrils, a glance behind his shoulder at the rest of the troupe, a tightening of the fists to psyche himself into it. Three, two, one and he bolts, tearing away from the Imperial’s grip and sprinting into the wood.

“Stop him!” A certain voice yells. In the panic, he registers the General’s tone, but doesn’t look back for a second, hopping his swift feet over the thick, protruding roots on the forest floor like an elk escaping her hunter, running for her dear life to return to the safest place of the wood. And while his heart is pumping, thudding, beating with anxiety, the adrenaline that courses through the blue veins beneath his snow white skin carries him through it, and soon enough, the Imperial shouts die down - out of range - and he slides down the sloping hill to get onto the main Falkreath road.

A fugitive, a rebel, a deserter. This is what he is now. He must find new clothes.

Light returns to the dragonborn’s eyes, blinking slowly though her blurred vision, gazing over to the Dunmer sitting beside her bed with her hands held tightly together. And they’re inside an inn by the looks of it; sturdy timber beams above their heads and a warm, blazing fire hearth crackling just outside the room. The dragonborn looks up into the Dark Elf’s unblinking eyes. They’re pink - dark pink - like Morrowind’s sublime twilight when the sun dips down between where the mountains meet the sky, casting its beautiful magenta hue onto the grey landscape. There’s a certain twinkle in them, almost like glimmering stars. She is transfixed. The eyes widen, noticing the dragonborn regain her consciousness and spirit, and she urges her to sit up in that straw bed. 

She exhales heavily as she readjusts her position, eyeing the surroundings of this room the Dunmer has so generously rented; ten gold looks the price of it - easily reimbursed - and a hot bowl of stew stands by the bedside.

“I’ve used a healing spell,” Her saviour says with a weak smile, “I’ll give you a potion before we leave.”

“We?” The dragonborn picks up, her voice hoarse and feeble. It feels like the smoke is still squeezing her lungs.

“If you want to, of course,” She stands up, her long, red robes draping over her frame, its soft fabric cuffed at her slender wrists. She offers a hand to the dragonborn, covered by a sheer black glove, “I couldn’t tell you where Stormcloak went, but my guess would be the opposite way to where we - I - need to be going.”

The dragonborn takes her hand, pressing her chilled palm to it, and stands up from the bed. She is taller, _much_ taller than the short-statured Dark Elf, and looks down with her glittering eyes,

“And _I_ couldn’t tell you that I’d ever want to see his face again.”

They both smile, drawing a long silence that is too filled with a mutual appreciation of one another to have an iota of awkwardness. The Dunmer drifts her hand to the dragonborn’s shoulder.

“Ophelia,” She says, “Ophelia Vadrith.”

And looking into those fuchsia eyes, the dragonborn replies with her own name,

“Venus Dengoth.” 

“Oh, I think I’d know the Stormcloak bride’s name,” She laughs to herself and passes the dragonborn her silky furs, “The grey quarter couldn’t contain it’s excitement when all of that gold was spent on the wedding; our draughty homes were never filled with such joy!” She takes her little hand away and leads her into the hall, taking a seat near the hearth.

“I’ve never been more lonely in my entire life since our marriage,” She brings the conversation down to the depressing realism of its subject. The dragonborn has not confided in a single person but her brother, and since his recruitment into the Stormcloak rebellion, the two haven’t exchanged a dialogue for months; this stranger is the next best thing. Ophelia stops in her reach for a sweet roll and turns, directing all of her attention to Venus as she continues, “I was still a teenager and they expected me to be an adult.”

“How old were you?” The Dunmer implores, her curiosity piqued.

“I turned twenty this First Seed, so, eighteen.” It seems her eyes lose their brightness, and she strokes the pelts with the palm of her pale hand. The Dunmer makes a grab for the wine, pouring herself and the dragonborn a sizable goblet. Venus changes the subject, not wishing to dwell on the man for longer than necessary, “Where are we going then?”

Ophelia takes a sip, a large one, and answers the question with a coy little smile,

“The City of Stone and capital of the Reach; Markarth.”

That cold, hard citadel constructed by the Dwemer themselves is the farthest possible place from Windhelm that Venus could go. Perfect. 

She tastes the wine and by Mara it is nauseating, but the alcohol is the thing she needs. She winces as it slips past her lips and slides across her tongue, running down her throat with its truly loathsome flavour until it’s all swallowed. Even the aftertaste is bitter. Though, Ophelia has no trouble with it, she keenly observes, and the Dunmer takes it down it without so much as a flinch.

 _“She must be used to it.”_ Venus deduces, not for a second appreciating the undeniable snob in the opinions she often forms.

Born to a noble family living in the northern province of Hammerfell, she never has had the misfortune of needing to consume ghastly food or drink; even in that despicable Palace of the Kings they wouldn’t dare to give her that which was subpar. A feast fit for the High King of Skyrim each evening was necessary in that place, for Stormcloak’s ego more than anything.

She shudders as the memories strum their wicked strings in her subconscious - that vile calling of which she ought never to experience again; _will_ never, so long she stays with the Dunmer and does… whatever it is she does…

“What is it you’re doing there?”

Ophelia laughs behind her goblet as she takes another sip. Those pink eyes lock in with the blue of the dragonborn. Then the eyes smile; delicate grey skin creasing by the lids. The metal cup is placed back onto the table gently and she reclines.

“How about you guess?” She peels a black glove from her right hand and places it onto her lap in between the shining waves of that silken, scarlet fabric. It cuts just above the knee and tight trousers of the same shade hug her slim legs; agile and stylish; dangerous and elegant. The name of the organisation is on the tip of the dragonborn’s tongue.

“You must be with the assassins, right?”

“Observant, then. Glad to know.”

“So, I’m correct?”

“How do you, a High Elf, know about the Brotherhood? Hm?” She smiles again and picks up the goblet, swilling the wine within it as she continues, “Some Aldmeri shit, right?”

“You praise me for being observant when you yourself are not…” Venus smiles and forces down another mouthful of the bitter alcohol, “I am no High Elf.”

The Dunmer is taken back for a second; her mouth parts and her eyes widen. The corners of her lips, however, stay tugged up, as if perpetually bemused, a combination of confusion and curiosity. She says nothing and patiently waits for the mysterious dragonborn to explain herself.

Contrary to the General’s pessimistic view, Private Rhodopis was not at all lost. The Redguard knew where to go the second that crime duo slipped into the keep; the Falkreath road. The cave beneath the keep has that convenient, hidden exit, safe from all detection as its path subtlety backs onto the trail to Riverwood. All except those who knew of its presence. So, patiently, she makes her way on the cobbled path towards that place, expecting to find the outlaws in their ragged and torn tunics to be easily recaptured and sent along with the rest of the prisoners.

 _“This could promote me,”_ She reasons with herself, her proud hand on her steel sword as she walks, _“The General will be proud, no doubt about it.”_

There’s no denying that her career means everything to her; to have the prospect of a new rank as reward motivates her all the more, no matter how heartless it may seem to send a hunter and a thief to their deaths; the Legion will always come first. It’s the reason she left her Hammerfell village; what more pride in life could she have than assisting Tullius himself in quelling a rebellion in Skyrim? How else could she honour her family so greatly as to be an essential aid in restoring the peace and order in the Nordic north? She has as much passion as the General himself and doing this will prove it. 

There is still a while until she reaches that cave, the winding road that snakes its way through Falkreath’s trees is unnecessarily long by her standards, not to mention the slight undulations over the uneven terrain that cost extra second so climb. So, she stops and sighs; a heavy, heavy exhale of breath that still feels trapped by smoke, and she rests by the trunk of a tree to gain her breath, offering a short glance over the forestial scenery to occupy her mind, waiting for her lungs to catch up. But then, she notices a blur through the branches. 

It’s not an elk, or a deer, or a stag, no, it’s far too stumbling to be such an elegant creature, but it’s fast, still swift enough to probably catch up with one.

 _“A hunter?”_ She supposes as her eyes continue to stare at the figure in the distance. But it isn’t, for when has anyone seen a hunter dressed in blue? Then it dawns on her. A rebel! A free rebel has managed to stumble their way into the forest in an attempt to save themselves from the headman’s axe! And so, she grins. 

_“A recaptured rebel is better than a thousand thieves.”_

Ula is first out of the cave, her Khajiit companion in tow just behind her. She isn’t stupid, she’s actually very wary; her wide eyes trained on everything she sees in the new environment. The Cat, however, is anything _but_ stealthy in this moment. She stands upright, smile beaming and shouts to the mountains,

“Freedom!” The sound echoes and re-echoes through the woods in front of them, earning a scowl from the Bosmer, and then a grasp onto her furry hand that violently jerks her down to a crouch behind a hedge. Ula’s steel look is a contrast to the Khajiit’s playful smirk,

“Ko’zaia, there are Imperials _everywhere_!” The Bosmer’s hiss is a tone studded with fear and frustration, “Most of them won’t have even left yet.”

The Khajiit raises her brows and lift a hand to Ula’s cheek, gently stroking while she purrs,

“Oh, my little elf, we will be absolutely fine!”

The hand is slapped away the moment it lands on her face. She is not impressed. Her look clearly denotes that; lip twitching up to a snarl, showing the tips of her teeth, resisting the temptation to growl. She has known this Cat for less than forty-eight hours and yet still, despite the irritation she causes, she feels an inexplicable force of obligation her to protect her. It could just the careless nature and attitude she carries with her that draws her in to save her each and every time, or it might be the strangely charismatic aura she seems to seep; her way of speaking and walking and just _looking_ that makes Ula think how if the two were untimely separated at any point during this escape, she might be willing to do anything to find her again. But still, it doesn’t mean she couldn’t get annoyed. 

Ko’zaia’s pale eyes soften as she sees this look, her furry hand sinking to her side and her expression becoming more solemn after each silent second passes, the Bosmer keeping her eyes unblinkingly locked with her own. She understands her faults, she knows she can be brash, she respects the stress the Wood Elf must be going through, but she’s entered the world of criminals now; she should be prepared for mischief and risk…

“You should be more careful is all I’m saying…” Ula reasons with a meek, almost apologetic voice. She looks away and stands up, offering a hand to the Cat. A truce. It is accepted, that slender hands slipping past the Bosmer’s palm to grasp onto the smooth, golden toned wrist and pull herself back up. 

“We should get to Whiterun,” The Khajiit says in a quieter tone than before, “Stay in an inn for a night and get to Riften as soon as possible.”

“Why Riften?” Ula’s brow furrows as she asks the question. All she can account for in that little city is the fish, the sewers and the thieves, which is the point where she realises that it must be a haven for a Cat like Ko’zaia. “Of course…” Is all she says as she hides the smirk forming on her lips. 

Then, the calm wind returns to the chill air as they start to walk towards their destination, swishing the shrubbery that surrounds them for the quiet rustles of those leaves and flowers to hide the delicate crunch of their footsteps on the path. So, the Elf and the Cat make their seamless escape from Helgen, entirely safe with one other, concealing their dimples of contentment from each other’s eyes.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading :)


End file.
